She guided them into a high-ceilinged room adorned with oriental rugs and gold-framed mirrors. In the middle of the room stood a pair of gilt-trimmed armchairs and a sofa arranged in a semicircle around a marble-topped coffee table. Gift boxes from luxury department stores littered the floor. None of them had been opened. Suit bags and dresses spilled out of a Louis Vuitton suitcase to one side of the room. A pair of Rolex watches, still in their leather boxes, had been carelessly discarded on an antique side table. On the left, a set of double doors led through to the bedroom. There was a door on the right side of the room connecting to an adjoining room. The PA’s quarters, Bowman guessed.

Jallow, Okello and Deka had spread themselves on the nearest armchairs, watching an episode of Rick and Morty on a flat-screen TV as big as the national debt. In his peripheral vision, Bowman glimpsed two young women lying on the unmade bed in the bedroom. A blonde and a brunette. They were tanned, long-legged, dressed in complimentary dressing gowns. Neither of them paid any attention to Bowman or Kember as they tapped away on their phones.

Lungu ushered them towards the far end of the room. A broad-shouldered figure stood in front of the French windows, smoking a cigar as he gazed out across Hyde Park. Lungu cleared her throat.

‘Sir, the soldiers are here. The ones I told you about.’

The man in front of the balcony slowly turned to greet the new arrivals. Bowman recognised his face instantly from the various reports he’d seen on the news.

Ken ‘The Viper’ Seguma.

The president looked somewhat shorter than he’d appeared on TV. Two or three inches under six feet. He had been living well, apparently. Better than his famished people. His face was plump; his prominent belly threatened to burst out of his tartan waistcoat. His small, round eyes were pressed deep into his skull. A rack of military medals hung from the left lapel of his morning suit. The designer’s label was still attached to the sleeve of his jacket, Bowman noticed.

Seguma took a puff on his stubby cigar. Smoke veiled his face as he studied the men closely.

‘You are from the Special Air Service, correct?’

‘Yes, sir, that’s us,’ Bowman said.

‘Wonderful. Splendid!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is always an honour to meet the men of the famous SAS.’

His voice was strangely stilted. An African tyrant, trying to imitate the accent of an English aristocrat.

‘Yes, I am a big fan,’ he continued. ‘You men are the real deal. Real killers!’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Bowman.

Seguma tapped cigar ash into an empty coffee cup. He said, ‘Martha tells me that some worthless dogs are looking to cause trouble today.’

‘It’s just a possibility, sir. We’ve been sent here to make sure everything runs smoothly.’